


Space and Light and Order

by pineapplesquid



Series: In the Details [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Established Relationship, Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Wings, partially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 11:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20723156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplesquid/pseuds/pineapplesquid
Summary: It’s been a year and a half since Crowley learned Aziraphale’s secret and, more importantly, managed to successfully take him out on a date. And then a few more. But even all the love in the world isn’t enough to keep a relationship simple or easy. Especially between two beings who differ in their very natures.Not that Crowley has any intention of letting that stop him.





	Space and Light and Order

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the long sequel, which I am still planning, but a shorter piece set in the interval between them. More of a relationship study than anything else.
> 
> The title is, again, from Le Corbusier: "Space and light and order. Those are the things that men need just as much as they need bread or a place to sleep."

By this time of year Crowley’s balcony was a riot of color. Flowers overflowed the built-in planters that lined the walls; a rose climbed a trellis on the east side, while lobelia, verbena and ivy spilled out and down to the floor. Scattered pots, holding the plants that didn’t fit elsewhere, added to the chaos.

In his first—well, second—round of drafted plans, Crowley had intended a limited color pallet. White, maybe. Or red. Black would have been striking, but there weren’t very many flowers that fit the bill. But Aziraphale had blithely declared that all flowers went together, no matter their colors, and that nothing clashed with concrete, after all. Come spring, Crowley had provided. The garden had really come into its own in its second year, and by mid-summer it was practically bursting.

Friends or colleagues of Crowley’s who raised their eyebrows in surprise at the sight got treated to his discourse on contrast and how subverting the expectations of Brutalism in specific elements could, in fact, emphasize its central tenets. Most of the time, though, he just made sure that the garden shears were kept sharp, and admired the bouquets that appeared in his flat, the bookshop and occasionally his own office from April through September.

He’d half expected to see Aziraphale out there now; that morning he’d noticed that some of the bunches were looking faded, and thought that they were due for fresh. A glance out the glass doors didn’t show him, though. They had said that they were meeting here this evening, right, instead of at the shop?

He glanced through to the kitchen, and saw a pile of flowers, cut but not yet arranged, mounded on the counter. Aziraphale was around here somewhere, then. He glanced down the hallway to the bedroom, which looked undisturbed, and then stopped in the doorway to the study.

The desk had been pushed to one wall; in the middle of the room was Aziraphale, surrounded by a vast expanse of white feathers. Crowley stopped still in the doorway, trying to catch his breath. He knew that Aziraphale had wings, of course—he’d seen them, once, on the night that the angel had revealed himself. Knowing was different than having them solid and real, though, like this. In the light of the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, they were radiant.

It was weaker than last time—possibly because Aziraphale wasn’t deliberately putting on a demonstration—but Crowley still had the urge to fall to his knees in worship. Aziraphale was always awe-inspiring, but usually in a, for lack of a better word, normal way. He’d taken Crowley’s breath away from the beginning, after all, wings or not. But Aziraphale’s overtly angelic form was something else altogether.

The effect was, if not ruined, perhaps a trifle dimmed as Crowley took in the absurdity of Aziraphale’s pose. He was kneeling on the floor, and had twisted himself around as far as he could go, reaching for the edge of his left wing, his right outstretched awkwardly to counterbalance. It was reminiscent of a cat attempting to groom an difficult spot, except that Aziraphale still wasn’t quite flexible enough to reach it. 

Crowley must have made a noise, then, because Aziraphale looked up at him, distracted from his goal. “Oh good, it’s you,” he said, as if he’d been expecting someone else to show up in the flat.

“Yes,” Crowley said. He knew his amusement was showing in his face, because Aziraphale looked at him reproachfully.

“There’s a loose feather,” he complained. “I just needed to—but I can’t quite reach it—”

It was obvious enough—a feather in the middle of his wing that was sticking out from the rest at a strange angle and had twisted upside-down. It didn’t look particularly comfortable. Impulsively, Crowley found himself reaching for it. It came away with the faintest tug, even as Aziraphale said, “So if you could just be a dear and hand me that pencil or something I can use—” before stopping in surprise, turning to see that Crowley already had it in his hand.

For a sickening moment Crowley thought he’d overstepped, but then Aziraphale smiled at him, surprised and sweet. “That was much easier,” he said. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Any time,” Crowley said automatically.

Aziraphale had relaxed, not straining as far around, but he was still somewhat twisted, frowning down over the back of the wing. “I think that was the only one,” he said, reaching over to smooth another feather into alignment, looking critically at a few others. 

Crowley felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and touch—smooth his fingers over the gleaming feathers at the edges, bury his hands in the small ones near Aziraphale’s shoulder, uncross two that looked out of place. He hadn’t been invited, though, and something stayed his hand. Instead he looked down, studying the shed one that he was holding. It was large, longer than any bird feather he’d ever seen, and surprisingly stiff. It was white, of course, but as he turned it in his fingers he kept thinking he saw hints of blue iridescence in the sunlight.

“Ahhhh,” Aziraphale sighed, untwisting himself and letting both wings stretch out to their full length. The tips of his feathers brushed the walls of the room, and it was obvious why he’d moved the furniture. “It does feel good to stretch sometimes, you know.”

Crowley bit back his first reply, which was that of course he didn’t, lacking the relevant appendages. It wouldn’t be a helpful comment; they were both perfectly aware of the differences between them, and harping on it wouldn’t do any good. And Aziraphale was so relaxed, right now, looking at home and content in Crowley’s study. He didn’t want to ruin something so beautiful with a snippy remark.

For the first several weeks after the memorable night when he’d learned Aziraphale’s true nature, it was the first thing that came to mind when he thought about him. A calendar reminder for a date popped up on his phone, and a voice in his brain piped up that he wasn’t human. They sat together in the bookshop, and he could only see him like he’d been that night, wings golden in the radiance of his halo. A constant awareness of _not like me. _Crowley had found it rather disturbing—he didn’t care whether Aziraphale was human or not, really, and he didn’t _want _it to be his first association. Over the months since, though, it had settled in as one of the many things that he knew about his—whatever they were. Aziraphale was fussy, and a little bit vain, and still stubbornly hated Brutalism, and drank every kind of black tea but never herbals, which he considered un-British, loved his bookshop more than just about anything, and was an angel.

And maybe the real reason that it had faded into the background was because, most of the time, it really didn’t matter. Crowley did know how good it felt to stretch after sitting at a desk for hours, after all, and it didn’t take that much imagination to extrapolate to stretching limbs that were almost always confined. He let the remark go and settled for watching Aziraphale. He was backlit by the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows, and the feathers along the edge of his wing glowed with the light that shown through them. It changed the quality of the light in the whole room to something indescribable. Crowley idly contemplated how one could replicate the effect with earthly materials—it would be just the thing in the lobby of his current project—but he was fairly certain it would be impossible.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, then, one wing brushing against the desk and the other having to fold a little to fit against the wall. Whatever he saw in Crowley’s face made his own expression soften. “My dear,” he said, bringing his wings in further so that he could come over. Crowley ducked the necessary couple of inches to kiss him before pulling back to look at him from this new, closer perspective. Aziraphale’s fair skin looked almost translucent in the light that filtered through his feathers, and his hair glowed almost as much as his wings did.

A soft hand on his cheek brought his gaze back to Aziraphale, who was watching him with bright eyes. “What is it, my dear?” he murmured.

Crowley had to swallow before he could speak. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want—” 

Aziraphale was frowning at him. “Don’t want what?” he prompted gently, when Crowley didn’t finish. 

“Don’t want me to—” Crowley waved a hand vaguely, taking in all of Aziraphale. “See you like this, or whatever.”

Aziraphale was staring at him now, looking dismayed. He’d dropped the hand from Crowley’s cheek, and taken a step backwards, leaving him alone in the doorway. “Don’t want? My dear, I don’t—” he floundered for a moment, looking down and then back. “I was just about to apologize to you,” he said finally, which startled Crowley in turn. The flush spreading across his cheeks was equally unexpected. “I did mean to be done with this before you got home. I thought that, perhaps, you didn’t want. . .”

It was Crowley’s turn to stare in disbelief, eyes flicking from Aziraphale’s face to the wings, still out behind him. “What on earth would make you think that?” he asked. “I never—”

“I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said, hands wringing. “I mean, I know that I’m. . . different than what you expected. What you could have conceivably expected, when you first—that is. You deserve—”

Crowley cut him off there, unwilling to hear the rest of that sentence. “I deserve _you_,” he said. “I mean, no, I don’t really, nobody in their right mind could argue that I’m good enough for you, but—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale interrupted him in turn, tone scolding. “Do be serious. I am. I know that you’ve made compromises,” he hurried on, not giving Crowley an opportunity to break in, and apparently not noticing his incredulous expression. “There’s no need to go shoving it in your face all the time.”

Most of that, Crowley decided, was going to have to be dealt with another time, or they’d never get back to the main point. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t mind about that. I never have. It doesn’t matter. I knew before we really started this, you made sure of that, and I didn’t care about it then, either. I just want you,” he finished, hoping he didn’t sound too pathetic.

Aziraphale offered a slightly pained smile. “Oh, my dear,” he said quietly. “I know—I know you think that. But it does matter, you know. Sometimes I wonder if you really understand—”

“Understand?” It was hard to believe what he was hearing. “How am I supposed to understand? You don’t talk about it. All you say is that you’re not human, you’re not like me, whatever, but that doesn’t actually tell me anything. You think you understand what it’s like to be human—”

“I have had six thousand years of observation,” Aziraphale interjected. He was fidgeting restlessly, hands working on each other and the hem of his waistcoat, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking unmoored in the middle of the emptied study. Crowley was used enough to his restlessness, but it was the first time he’d seen his wings twitch along with his hands, feathers fluttering as the tips brushed patterns against the floor. Aziraphale must have caught his glance at them, though, because he made a little face and folded them away out of existence. “I realize it’s not the same as first-hand experience, but—”

“So I’m starting out behind, but that doesn’t even matter. Maybe it’s not what you’re used to, but humans, we pick things up quickly. I’m pretty good with it, if you give me something to go on, but, Aziraphale, how am I supposed to understand if you don’t even let me really know you? You haven't even given me a chance.”

Crowley finally managed to choke off the stream of words, but it was too late. The sudden silence that had fallen was sickening. The only thing that was worse was the expression on Aziraphale’s face. He stood stock still, now, hands gripping his waistcoat tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley managed after a too-long minute, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You did,” Aziraphale said. Crowley told himself that he probably hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation.

Crowley shook his head. “It wasn’t fair,” he tried again. “I know you’re not trying to keep me out.”

Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked up again, he looked tired. It was maybe the first time that Crowley had seen him looking truly worn. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said, in a nearly-expressionless voice, “Why you said it. Fair or not.”

Crowley rocked on his heels, quashing the impulse to turn and leave the apartment. It would only help in the short term, after all. And Aziraphale was quite capable of sitting there, unmoving, until Crowley returned, still expecting an answer. He compromised instead, pacing halfway through the living room towards the door before spinning on his heel and returning to the study, where he leaned against the doorframe in what was probably a hopeless attempt at looking casual. He pretended he hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s look of relief when he’d turned around.

“You’re not really here,” he said, finally. “I mean, you are,” he added quickly, aware that he wasn’t making much sense. “You’re here now. And I love that, and I love you.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, not nearly, and he’d heard it back plenty of times too. It still didn’t feel like a casual thing to admit. “But. It’s, what? One year, or a little more. Out of six thousand. And I don’t even know what it means to you, not really.”

“Everything,” Aziraphale said, and suddenly he was there, hands reaching for Crowley’s shoulders and gripping tightly, turning him so that he had no choice but to meet his eyes. “My dear. It—you—it means everything. If I don’t talk about the past, it’s just. . . it doesn’t seem important. Not when I could be here with you now.”

Crowley blinked hard, forcing the threatening tears back. “It’s not just that,” he managed. “You’re here for dinner, or an afternoon, or I’m there for an evening, but it’s not—I love talking with you, about books or dolphins or the neighborhood gossip, or drinking wine or eating dinner or anything, really, but sometimes it feels like that’s all there is. You can have everything of mine—you do, already, everything that’s important—but I still don’t know what you want from me. From us.”

The room fell into silence. Crowley was still breathing heavily. Any pretense of a relaxed lean against the doorframe had evaporated; it felt like the only thing that was holding his body up, now. He couldn’t quite bring his gaze up to look at Aziraphale’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, quietly. “I should have done better. I’ve let you down again.”

Crowley managed to raise his eyes and studied him for a long moment. He considered assuring the angel that it was fine and leaving the issue behind. They had a dinner reservation, after all, and he hadn’t been lying when he said that time, any time, with Aziraphale was nearly all he needed to be happy. All he needed was a rote reassurance, and they could go back to the comfortable happiness he’d been anticipating all day. But when he spoke, it wasn’t those words that came out. “So, what are you going to do about it?” 

There was a hint of surprise in Aziraphale’s eyes when he looked back at Crowley. Apparently he’d been expecting the standard absolution too. “Do?”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “What people do when they want something to change. Do something to make it happen.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, quietly. He was silent for a long minute, then sighed. “Do come sit with me,” he said, reaching for Crowley’s arm and tugging him gently into the living room and towards the sofa. He deposited him at one end and settled down himself at the other. “What do you want, my dear?”

Not this again. “I asked you first, angel,” Crowley said, hearing the edge in his voice as he spoke. “It doesn’t count if I just tell you what to say—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale interrupted him. “I mean, what would you want? If you could have anything? For us, I mean.”

Crowley thought that he should probably pause and think about his answer, like Aziraphale had just done, but the words were pouring out before he could stop to consider them. “I want to wake up to you in the morning—not in the bed, if you don’t want to, I know you don’t sleep, but with you somewhere nearby. I want to know that you’re here, even when it’s not planned, even when either of us might just as well be somewhere else. I want to have _our_life. Not mine and yours. To be _sharing_,” he said, a bit desperately. If even he didn’t know what he really meant, how was Aziraphale supposed to?

Aziraphale had been watching him with a gentle look the entire time, but now he beamed. “That’s easy enough then,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Is it?” Crowley drawled, dubiously. If it were easy, he’d have sorted it out by now himself, surely.

“I thought perhaps you wanted something complicated,” Aziraphale said. His smile had dimmed a little, but it was still sincere as he watched him. “The only problem is where.” 

“Where?” Crowley asked. His heart had started to pound, inexplicably—his subconscious had caught on to wherever Aziraphale was going with this, apparently, even if the rest of him was lagging behind.

Aziraphale was looking around, a little bit dubiously. “Would you want me to move in here?” he asked, and now Crowley couldn’t breathe, either. “It’s just, you have it all arranged so perfectly, but I really don’t know that any of my things would fit in here—”

And with that, Crowley couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss him. “Yes,” he murmured against his lips. “Yes, of course I want you here.”

Aziraphale kissed him back, instantly and enthusiastically, but pulled back eventually. “Really?” he asked, skeptically. “I know you live here because you love it. And I admit, I’ve gotten rather more used to it myself. But if I were really living here, properly, I’d want at least my desk, and a few shelves of books, and the gramophone, and probably more, and, well. You can’t really want that.”

Crowley tried to imagine his flat, full of Aziraphale’s possessions along with his own. All he could envision was that god-awful cherub statue standing in the middle of his coffee table, clashing horribly with his art collection. “I. . .” he trailed off. “It could be done, with some rearranging,” he managed. Even he could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

“So, not here, then,” Aziraphale said, watching him shrewdly.

There was no helping it. “Probably not,” Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale had a tentative look again. “Would you want to, then?” he asked. “If it meant moving somewhere else?” 

That one didn’t even take any thought. “It’s just a flat,” Crowley said with a shrug. 

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened at that, more than Crowley would have expected. It made sense, though, when he thought about it. The bookshop had been Aziraphale’s home for centuries, and last year the thought of losing it had made him frantic. The fact that he’d been willing to entertain even the idea of moving somewhere else for Crowley made his own heart stutter. Of course Crowley’s own willingness seemed like a larger gesture than it was. A moment later, Aziraphale had slid forward, almost into his lap, and was kissing him again.

“This has gotten more fun than most relationship discussions tend to be,” Crowley said lightly as they parted. Aziraphale chuckled and sat back but didn’t scoot away, his knees still touching Crowley’s. 

“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked, eyes gleaming with gentle humor. “It’s my first, you know. Oh, I forgot to start with that phrase that humans are always saying. Crowley, my dear, we need to talk. Or maybe I meant, it’s not you, it’s—”

Crowley had to lean forward and kiss the smile off his lips as he said the words. “Do you even know what that means?” he asked, pretending severity. “Unless you’re trying to break up with me, angel, you’d better steer clear of that one.”

“Anything but that,” Aziraphale murmured. His eyes were still fixed Crowley’s lips, and for a moment it seemed that the discussion might permanently turn in another direction, but then he raised them resolutely to meet Crowley’s gaze. “The question is just where, then.”

Crowley frowned. “Do you really want to leave the bookshop? I mean, you usually read all night, and your books are there. Moving out just seems like a hassle, for you.”

There was a moment’s wistfulness in Aziraphale’s face, but it disappeared quickly. “It’s worth it,” he said, with all the startling sincerity that he was occasionally prone to. “If it makes you happy. And. . .” he flushed, slightly. “It did sound nice. What you said.”

Crowley had leaned forward for another kiss, Aziraphale swaying to meet him, when a thought occurred to him and he froze. “The flat,” he said.

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder to balance himself, looking up at Crowley with mild annoyance. “We already talked about that. Not a good idea.”

“No, not this flat,” Crowley said, caught up in his plan. “Your flat.”

“I don’t have a flat.”

“You do! You told me so! You said there were rooms upstairs of the bookshop.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sat back, expression becoming thoughtful. “I mean, there are. I haven’t been up there in ages, I have no idea what kind of condition they’re in.”

Crowley scoffed. “It’s your building, I’m sure they’re fine. Wouldn’t dare be otherwise.”

“I haven’t touched them since 1792, you know,” Aziraphale said worriedly. “The decorating’s rather out of fashion, by now. And no heat, or electricity, or any of that.”

“We can fix that,” Crowley insisted. “As long as we don’t go crazy, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting it approved. And you’ll be near your books, but we can still have a bed. And a kitchen, I suppose, and whatever else you want.”

“I have everything I want already.” Aziraphale was watching him with soft eyes, and Crowley, who felt rather that there’d be enough of that sort of thing for one evening, instinctively deflected.

“I know, I know, give you a comfortable chair and somewhere to plug in the kettle, and you’re happy. Those of who sleep like having an actual bed, though. Not to mention a shower.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “Come by tomorrow and see them, then, and you can tell me what you think. Now,” he added, eyes sliding down to fix on Crowley’s lips again. “Even I know what couples do after a quarrel.”

“If you think that was a quarrel, you’re going to be in for an unpleasant surprise when we have a real fight,” Crowley said, without any heat.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, pouting, “If you don’t _want _to make up properly—"

Crowley tackled him before he could finish the sentence, pressing him back against the pillows and ruthlessly taking advantage. His earlier thought about getting on his knees in worship came back to him, and he grinned against Aziraphale’s mouth. If his angel wanted to make up in style, it was really the least he could do.

**

The flat filled the entire top floor of the building, aside from the balcony of the shop. The air was still as they walked in, apparently undisturbed for decades. Crowley had expected a thick layer of dust, but it was actually pretty minimal—Aziraphale’s doing, perhaps. It was a blessing, anyway, literal or metaphoric, because it let him see the details of the empty rooms clearly. 

Crowley moved slowly into the first room, painted a pale cream, and admired the tall windows, which filled the room with light. A large fireplace on the far wall, surrounded by elaborate plasterwork, was the only overt ornament. The marquetry floor still felt solid underfoot, the dark wood picking out a star in the middle of the space. That was definitely thanks to Aziraphale, to whom routine maintenance was evidently an entirely unconscious function. 

Beyond it was what had clearly been a formal dining room. Here, the previous occupants had been less restrained. The walls were covered in a brilliantly green silk—apparently Aziraphale’s powers of preservation extended to preventing fading—and the carvings on the high ceiling were picked out in gilt. Aziraphale, following him a step or two behind, looked vaguely approving. “No,” Crowley said, firmly. “We are not keeping green silk anywhere, much less in the dining room.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Aziraphale said docilly. It didn’t fool Crowley for a minute. He’d tear the damn silk out himself secretly in the dead of night if he had to, rather than try to eat in a room that felt like being inside a billiard table.

The next room, another sitting room that might do well for a study, was done up in a surprisingly bright blue, paired with red trim and more gilt on the ceiling. Crowley was going to have to be careful about who handled their application for the renovations; most of the restorationist crowd who oversaw listed buildings would die for an untouched interior like this. But they weren’t the ones who’d have to live with Georgian decorating sensibilities. He knew enough people and was owed a few favors, though—not enough to get away with anything egregious, but it should suffice to get someone who would let them paint it a reasonable color.

“It is rather nice up here, isn’t it,” Aziraphale said. “I’d rather forgotten. What it was like, you know. When this,” he gestured around at the room, and perhaps the flat more generally, “Was still the style. I can almost feel the cravat around my neck again. Uncomfortable things, they were.”

Crowley glanced over at him and caught an oddly tentative, almost shy look. It was one of the first times he’d heard Aziraphale reference the long centuries that he’d lived before Crowley had been born, he realized. Warmth filled his chest, a deep, unmeasurable fondness for the angel, nerves and old irrational hang-ups and all. “That’s what you get for starching your neckwear, I suppose,” he said. He kept his voice light, but some emotion must have spilled over, because Aziraphale’s face softened into an unbearably affectionate expression that he was terribly afraid was mirroring his own. “If someone who sets his own dress code but still wears a bowtie daily complains, it must have been truly hellish.”

“I was quite glad when they went out of fashion,” Aziraphale agreed, quiet and warm. “I’d rather forgotten what it was like, up here,” he mused. “The last owner lived here, I believe, and gave me a tour at the time, but I never really bothered with it again.”

“You could have rented it out, made a mint,” Crowley observed. “A place like this.”

Aziraphale made a face. “And have a stranger traipsing through my shop at all hours? No. And what would I care about the money for, anyway?”

The economics of the bookshop had always been a mystery to Crowley, but now hardly seemed like the time to try to unravel them. Instead he poked his way down a hallway, finding two small bedrooms that had presumably been meant for the servants, and the kitchen at the end. It, of course, would need some of the most extensive renovations. He peered in the door at the bedrooms, trying to guess whether the wall between them was load-bearing. If they could knock it out, they could make a much more convenient dining room there, rather than halfway across the apartment. But then what to do with the original. . .

He was still standing there, lost in thought, when Aziraphale came up behind him. “You don’t like it?” he asked, and Crowley caught the thread of worry in his voice. 

“Not at all,” he reassured him. “I was just thinking about dining rooms. Not sure if you’ve really know what you’ve done, inviting an architect in. You know that the house is a project that is never truly finished, right?”

“I certainly don’t intend to complain, my dear.”

“There’s plenty of space,” Crowley said, letting possibilities unspool behind his eyes. “We should make sure that one room’s clear enough to let your wings out. If you want.”

Aziraphale froze, for just a moment, and Crowley was afraid he’d mis stepped, but then he felt a warm weight settle against his back, arms reaching tentatively around him. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his and leaned back slightly in return, enjoying the feeling of being held and idly considering the best spot for the new bathroom.

“Peace be on this home.” Crowley could barely make out the words muttered against the back of his collar; Aziraphale was talking more to himself than to him, he thought. “A refuge from the world, and a shelter for all who dwell here.”

It was more than just words, he realized. A very literal blessing laid over their flat. He let the warmth of it soak into his bones, knowing the words would be true. They probably wouldn’t even need the miracle for that.

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't stop thinking about some of the ways that their relationship would play out, both the good and the complicated.


End file.
